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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959562">Ghosts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko'>Akiko_Natsuko</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Zine Collection [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Loneliness, Survivor Guilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:42:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,392</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959562</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison was a ghost of the man he had been. And if he was anything more than that, he was a soldier, broken and bloodied, chased by the ghosts of the past. Ghosts of his own making.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Zine Collection [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1180733</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord  <a href="https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB">The Unholy Trinity</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    It was harder than it should have been for Jack to scale the security fence, falling heavily to one knee as he landed, and having to dive for cover behind a pile of crates bearing the Helix logo. Vision whiting out for a moment as the dull ache in his side roared to life once more. Cursing under his breath, he pressed a hand against it, even as his gaze darted to the security bots as they moved through their security patrols, waiting to see them turn towards his location. It was only when the seconds crept by into a minute, and then another, that he dared to breathe again, slumping back against the crates, and glowering down at his side. It was healing. What had been a searing burn only days before, now little more than an ache, but it was still hindering him, slowing his movements, making him question each step, especially as he let his hand fall away, realising how badly he was trembling.</p><p>    His body was healing, faster than most peoples would, but it was still too slow. The enhancements stretched to breaking point after keeping him alive after he’d crawled out of Zurich. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d dragged his broken, bleeding body out of the wreckage of his old life, and yet, his breath still caught whenever he bent the wrong way, while the raw wounds on his face, continued to throb and fester, fighting the regeneration.  Deep down, he knew that he should wait. That he should remain hidden away until he was fully healed, but he knew that no matter how long he remained in the bolthole he’d found, it wouldn’t change the fact that he had lost everything, or rather that he had allowed it to trickle through his fingers. That if he had acted sooner, or listened better, he could have avoided all of this.</p><p>That he was alone.</p><p>    It had been that realisation, and the aching, numbing chill that had followed that had finally driven him out into the open. The mission, if he could even call it that, was nothing more than an attempt at distraction, even if it was going to be necessary in the longer run. A pitiful, broken effort to convince himself that he could still…he wasn’t sure what. Fight? Fix things? Seek absolution? The same question that he had been asking himself on a loop since Zurich, and he was still no closer to an answer, and he missed Ana and Gabriel with an almost physical ache because they had always been his sounding board. His voice of reason when his thoughts were too tangled for him to make sense of alone.</p><p>Until he’d lost Ana.</p><p>Until he’d stopped listening.</p><p>Until he’d left Gabriel beneath Zurich.</p><p>    He’s not ready for this. Not physically or mentally, but going back empty handed isn’t an option either, because he knows himself well enough that if he does, then he’s going to stagnate again. It’s what he had been doing for months after all, high up in his office, so separate from the people he had once fought and struggled beside, that he had started to lose himself.</p><p>No, he had lost himself.</p><p>    Because he didn’t recognise the face in the mirror, he hadn’t recognised him for months. It was worse now, though. His features laid to ruin. Although maybe that was for the best because it was damage that would linger and scar. Reminding him of what his actions, or rather inaction had caused.  That he was no longer the Strike Commander. No longer Jack Morrison, a graduate of SEP and a hero of the Omnic Crisis. He wasn’t even sure if he was even just Jack anymore because he couldn’t go home without endangering his family, and he was no longer the man who had spent hours upon hours with Fareeha working on a costume for school. Nor was he the Jack who had laughed and joked with the Strike Team and tried and failed to get drunk with Reinhardt the day the Crisis was over.</p><p>    He wasn’t any of those things anymore. If he was anything, he was a soldier, broken and bloodied, chased by the ghosts of the past. Ghosts of his own making, he thought bitterly, lifting a finger to his face, stroking over the bandages before pulling back and letting his head fall back against the crates, a brittle noise that could barely be called a chuckle bubbling up.</p><p> He was a poor excuse for a soldier.</p><p>   He remained like that for a moment longer, before pushing himself up and peering around the crates, scanning the air, watching the lights of the security bots as they moved through the darkness. Trying to wrangle his mind away from the darkening thoughts, missing the comforting weight and warmth of someone at his back, as he tried to work out his next move. This mission had been a spur of the moment decision, and he had nothing, no resources, no Athena to map out the terrain for him, and he shifted uneasily.</p><p>
  <em>Alone.</em>
</p><p>    The word seared through him, burning as it settled beneath his skin now that it had been acknowledged and he swallowed back bile before surging into movement. He had always been better at action. Or at least he had been…</p><p>     He burst out into the open, eyes roving across the space between him and his target, ignoring the cloudiness that coloured the periphery of his vision, another leftover from Zurich. There was enough cover between the various piles of storage crates to get him most of the way without being seen, and a small voice at the back of his mind that sounded a lot like Ana at her sternest was telling him to use the cover, and use his ‘damned’ head for once. With the past pressing in and the realisation that he was alone still simmering below the surface, he was less inclined to listen than usual, clenching his jaw as he pushed the thought away and charged forwards. <em>‘You’re being reckless, Jack’</em> a different voice this time, gruff but fond in its own way, and he pushed himself to move faster, no longer just focused on getting to his goal, but on escaping from the past.</p><p>      There was a brief moment of relief, as he lost himself in moving, ignoring the ache of his injuries and the way his breath burned in his chest, the blurring in the corner of his eyes intensifying. Then light flared ahead, and a loud alarm assailed his ears, deafening in the otherwise silent night, and it was instinct more than anything that had him flinging himself to the side just as bullets raked the floor at his feet as the security bots homed in on him. None of the shots hit, but he groaned, his body protesting the abrupt jolting, but he didn’t stop, and nor did he take cover. He had well and truly announced his presence now, and there was a strange rush moving through his body as he began to zigzag, avoiding the gunfire from the bots as they doggedly gave chase.</p><p>    He wasn’t sure whether it was just being in the field again, a feeling that he had all but forgotten, replaced by the hollow weight of the Strike Commander’s uniform. Or, whether it was the danger. The risk. The chance to make a difference, to arm himself, to become the soldier he had once been or find his way to his friends. It didn’t really matter he supposed, grimly ignoring the voices of the ghosts that we scolding him for being reckless, for not watching his six, eyes locked on the warehouse he was trying to reach.</p><p>This mission was a test.</p><p>     There was no hope for absolution in this. No answers about what had happened at Zurich. But at the end of it, he would either be dead, or he would be able to move forward. No longer just a lost soul, or a poor excuse for a soldier. But a soldier. Armed. Dangerous. And hopefully able to find answers to the questions that plagued him, to find some way towards making amends, even if it were only to find the truth of why Overwatch had been destroyed.</p><p>
  <em>But he would still be alone.</em>
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